


Remembrance of Things Past

by Fyre



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Complete, Crawly is a sweetheart, Fluff, I know I said I wouldn't do it, Memory Loss, Post-Armageddon, Pre-Relationship, whoops
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22118713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: “You didn’t think we would just forget about your misbehaviour, did you, Crawly?”Crowley locked his hands around the steering wheel and slammed his foot down on the accelerator, heart thundering. The bookshop was up ahead. Couple more blocks and he’d be within the protective mantle that covered the place for fifty metres in every direction.“It’s Crowley now,” he said through bone-dry lips.“Oh no, darling,” Lucifer’s malevolence thrummed in Freddie’s voice. “Not anymore.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 778
Kudos: 856





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Shakespeare's Sonnet 30, for reasons which will become clear :) 
> 
> And to Drawlight, whose agonising Tell Me Who Is The Victor lit the flame in my brain, I'm undecided as to whether I should thank you or throw rocks at you for this :D

Six months had gone by since a certain incident at a certain airbase, but that didn’t stop Crowley being on his guard every minute of every day. He’d spent too many centuries being cautious to break the habit now.

There were places that were safe. The shop. His place. That cottage they were building defences around in the South Downs. And, until Freddie Mercury’s dulcet tones turned into something more sinister, he had assumed his car.

“You didn’t think we would just forget about your misbehaviour, did you, Crawly?”

Crowley locked his hands around the steering wheel and slammed his foot down on the accelerator, heart thundering. The bookshop was up ahead. Couple more blocks and he’d be within the protective mantle that covered the place for fifty metres in every direction.

“It’s Crowley now,” he said through bone-dry lips.

“Oh no, darling,” Lucifer’s malevolence thrummed in Freddie’s voice. “Not anymore.”

_______________________________

Aziraphale checked his watch again, frowning.

It was unlike Crowley to be late. If anything, he tended to be early, so he could gleefully catch Aziraphale unprepared and spend a good half an hour of their lunch appointment mercilessly teasing him about how disorganised he was. When he _was_ running late, he generally called ahead.

The fact he had neither called nor appeared on time was more than a little worrying.

It wasn’t that Aziraphale considered himself paranoid, but he had spent long enough looking over one shoulder to know when something felt amiss. He hurried through to the back of the shop and picked up the receiver of the telephone, which obligingly dialled Crowley’s mobile telephone number on his behalf.

No response.

The angel looked at the receiver as if it had somehow betrayed him.

Something, he knew in that terrible, deep, instinctual, hook-in-the-soul kind of way, was very, very wrong. Crowley never went anywhere without his telephone and despite years of hoarding message on that wretched answering cassette device, he always picked up when Aziraphale called.

He checked his watch again.

Only two minutes late. Only. As if that had ever happened before.

Another minute, he decided, then he would start to worry properly.

Aziraphale paced about the shop, as if walking in slow circles was any better than dashing about in mad ones. Once, twice, he picked things up – he couldn’t even say what – then set them back down. He twisted his ring. He glanced at the door, peered out the windows, even went so far as to walk out into the road and look around.

That, of course, was when he saw the flashing blue lights.

Ah! Of course. An accident. That would explain why Crowley was late. Simple. No reason to worry, even if the telephone was going unanswered. He was either delayed behind it or… probably was the cause behind it. Sometimes, the dear chap couldn’t help himself. That was all it had to be.

No reason to worry at all.

Only there was a police car there, lights still on, and what seemed to be an ambulance.

Aziraphale shut the shop door, locking it with a gesture, then hurried along the pavement. No need to dash, he told himself, as his walk turned from a gentle stroll into a rapid trot and then into something more closely resembling a jog.

And, as he got closer, it felt as if a vice was closing around his ribs.

A car accident, his brain explained, clean and categorical. A car had run straight into a lamp post, buckling the bonnet inwards. Must have been speeding, it added, judging by the shattered wind-screen and folded metal. And the car appeared to be a–

Don’t, he told himself, clenching his hands together hard, trying not to see what was before him.

Black metal. Broken glass.

The Bentley, wrapped around the lamppost like a serpent around Moses’s staff.

It… it was a coincidence, that was all. Crowley would never be foolish enough to run into a lamp post. He was… admittedly a very reckless driver, but he would never crash. He would never allow the Bentley to be damaged that way after all. Some other speed maniac must have been–

“Sir! Please! Sit down!”

“But how does it do that?”

The familiar voice made Aziraphale’s heart drop to his shoes. He turned as if on casters to see a paramedic gently but firmly steering a red-haired figure – wrapped in an incongruously white blanket – back into the ambulance.

There were barriers up and policemen in uniforms pressing people back, away from the scene, but no one noticed as Aziraphale ran towards the ambulance. The doors were still open and both the paramedic and the patient turned when he scrambled in. Crowley raised his eyebrows over bemused golden eyes, as if surprised to see him.

“Who the hell are you?” the paramedic demanded.

Oh, Lord, there were too many explanations, but right now, the most important thing was getting Crowley out of there. A snap of his fingers and a touch of a miracle and the paramedic was very distracted.

“Come on!” Aziraphale said, catching Crowley by the arm. “We need to get out of here before people start asking questions.”

“Yeah, don’t want anyone asking questions,” Crowley agreed, hopping up and following him out of the ambulance.

Aziraphale rushed him passed the ruins of the Bentley, quite frankly astonished that the demon wasn’t making more of a fuss. “What on earth happened, my dear?”

“Buggered if I know,” Crowley replied. “One minute, I’m minding my own business and next thing I know, I’m in a bloody great metal box and that metal light-tree got in the way.” He tutted. “I’m amazed I didn’t get discorporated.”

“Well, that makes two of us!” Aziraphale retorted tartly. “For Heaven’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you to mind the speed limit?”

“The what?”

Aziraphale stopped, turning around to look at him. “Honestly, Crowley, this is…” He paused, frowning. “Your glasses.”

Crowley’s eyes flicked from side to side, as if looking for some kind of explanation. “My what?”

“Your– Crowley, why aren’t you wearing your glasses?”

The demon frowned. “You’ve lost me.”

Slowly, slowly, Aziraphale’s mind started to ring alarm bells that had been numbed by the shock of the sight of the car. “What do you mean the metal light-tree?”

The demon grinned. “Oh! That’s easy!” He waved towards one of the nearby lamp posts. “They’re new, aren’t they?” He gave one an admiring look. “Practical, too. Bet they’re useful at night.”

Aziraphale’s world was contracting down to a pin-prick, his lungs heaving with unnecessary gasps for breath. No. No, no, no. “And… and the object you were in?”

“The metal box?” The demon glanced around the street. “Like these,” he said, gesturing to the cars. His face creased up in visible confusion as he turned, peering around at the streets. Too visible. His eyes gave away so much. “Is this what was outside? I mean, I knew there were walls and things, but you’d think I’d’ve noticed all _this_.”

Walls, Aziraphale thought numbly. Light tree. Metal box.

“My dear,” he said as carefully as he could, “where do you think we are?”

The demon shrugged. “No idea. Definitely not in the garden, are we?” He gave Aziraphale a painfully familiar sunny smile that the angel hadn’t seen in… oh… six thousand years. “Nice of you to get me out of trouble with the yellow-jacket, though. Don’t know what she was on about. What’s an address?” His eyes widened and he leaned closer. “You all right? You’ve gone a funny colour.”

Was this what a heart attack felt like? This clenching, tightening pain in one’s chest and the world going strange and out of focus along the edges?

“My dear,” he forced the words out. “Do you know who I am?”

The demon beamed at him. “Oh yeah,” he said. “You’re the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.” He gave Aziraphale a nudge with his elbow. “You sure you won’t get into trouble, helping a demon?”

Aziraphale stared at him, stricken.

Hell, it seemed, had taken its vengeance after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, I'm weak and couldn't resist posting :)

Crawly studied the angel doubtfully.

They were in a box of a building – a shop, apparently – full of rectangular thingies that smelled of leather and dried wood pulp and dust. He was sitting on something the angel called a couch and the angel was sitting beside another box-thing covered in flat sheets and tools.

“And we know each other?”

The angel nodded. He looked like he was trying very hard not to cry, all lip wobbling and worried. “Very well,” he said and there was something in the way his voice shook that said he was telling the truth. But then, he was an angel, wasn’t he? Wasn’t as if he’d go around lying like that.

Crawly wrinkled his nose. “I’m not buying it.”

The angel propped his arm on the higher edge of the chair, hiding his face behind his hand and that was just… not good at all. Maybe Crawly was a demon, but it didn’t mean he liked seeing people getting upset. “No,” he said. “I didn’t imagine you would.”

“I mean, you’re an _angel_ ,” Crawly said quickly, trying to patch this new crack, like slapping wet mud over a hole. “Why would an angel know someone like me?”

The angel lowered his hand and looked across the floor at him. “I don’t know,” he said, all soft and sad, “but you did.” He took a slow breath, like he was putting pieces back together and sat up, straight-backed and chin-up, all stiff-upper-lip like the soldier Crawly had been briefed about. “What was the last thing you remember?”

Crawly scratched his nose thoughtfully. “They told me to go up and make some trouble.” He shrugged. “Thought they’d dropped me in the metal box to do that.”

“Oh Lord…” the angel said, soft and unsteady. He got up, though he raised a hand when Crawly started to rise – wary – as well. “No, dear. Stay there. I have… I’ve got something I think you need to see.” He went over to a… stand thingie. There was one of the rectangles on it, wide open, with a picture of some kind. The angel picked it up, then looked back at him. “Can you read?”

Crawly sputtered indignantly. “Can I–? What kind of idiot do you think I am?”

“One who doesn’t enjoy books,” the angel said with surprising gentleness. He returned and held down the open rectangle – a book? – to him.

Crawly looked down at it, frowning. There were letters there, but they weren’t anything like the divine script or any of the diabolical ones either. He tilted the book one way, then the other. “It doesn’t move.”

“Ah.” The angel bent over it and ran his hand down the text. Immediately, the strange sigils changed shape and form and Crawly leaned forward, peering at them and read a tale about a garden and humans and an apple. As he did, the angel walked quietly about the room. Glass clinked on glass and liquid was poured.

When Crawly straightened up, the angel was back in his seat. He had a glass vessel in his hand, half-full of golden liquid.

“I don’t get it,” Crawly said. “What’s this got to do with the price of fish?”

The angel took a sip from his vessel. “That was the trouble you made,” he said quietly.

Crawly stared at him, then back at the book, then back at him. “You what?”

“You,” the angel said, looking down into his glass, “were the serpent.”

“Ha!” Crawly slapped the book shut. “I think I’d remember if I was responsible for the fall of man.”

The blue-grey-green-hazel-storm eyes were suddenly fixed on his and Crawly felt like he was standing on the very edge of a very high drop. “You would think so, wouldn’t you?”

Crawly stared back at him, fingers curling around the edge of the book, as comprehension walloped him like a rock. “I’ve lost my memory?”

The angel’s face twisted up. Pain. He was hurt by it. Hurt by someone taking _Crawly_ ’s memories. Well, wasn’t that something? “I believe so.”

“Why?” He shook his head. “I mean, I must’ve been good at my job, eh? If the humans fell because of me?” He frowned, looking down at the leather cover of the book. It was thick and it didn’t look new and the apple story was only the beginning.

He glanced around the room they were in. Dust and old leather and stone walls and wooden crafts. Not something built in a hurry, that, and definitely no divine touches in it. Like the place outside. Buildings all tall and big and shiny and people all in all kinds of cloths.

“Angel,” he said, worried, “how long ago did the apple-thing happen?”

The angel licked pale lips with the tip of a very pink tongue and swallowed hard. “Six thousand years, give or take.”

“Six th–” Crawly gawped at him, mouth opening and shutting. “Six… I… you mean… six _thousand_? As in three zeroes?”

The angel nodded. “It was four thousand or so before… well, a certain event,” he said unhappily, looking down into his glass. It was shaking, Crawly noticed distractedly. “We’re two-thousand and nineteen years after that event now.”

Crawly turned the book in his lap, right, then left, then back again. “Six…” The word was stuck on a loop and wouldn’t go away. Six thousand. Six thousand years, this angel was telling him. Did that mean he’d been around the full six thousand? Or only part? Or was there an instalment plan?

His fingers were tugging at the edge of the sheets of the book. There was something about the sound, the feel, the give of something under his hands. Calming. Better.

“Did I get discorporated or something?”

Those angel eyes were back on his face. “What?”

“Is that what happens? You forget stuff when you discorporate?”

Oh Hell, he looked like he was going to cry again. “No,” he said. “I… I don’t believe that was what happened.”

Crawly stared long and hard at him. “You know,” he realised. “You know what happened, don’t you?”

The angel nodded. “I’m afraid I can guess,” he said. He set his glass down on the surface beside him and took a breath, as if afraid of what he was going to say next. “A few months ago, Armageddon was meant to happen.”

“Oh! So that’s why this is happening? End of the world? Heaven won, then?” He frowned. “Wait. The world’s still here…”

The angel’s lips thinned to a line and he shook his head. “I’m afraid this happened because of what you– what _we_ did when it was meant to happen.”

“We? Heaven-we? Was this Heaven, then?”

Those eyes were on his again and Crawly’s chest felt like something was wriggling inside it. “No. _We_. You and I.” He leaned forward, his eyes never leaving Crawly’s and that was enough to make Crawly sit back nervously in the chair, wondering if he was about to get a smiting. “We prevented it.”

“We?” Crawly echoed, staring at him.

“Yes.”

“We-we? You and me we?”

“Yes.”

“ _We_ ” – Crawly gestured wildly between them – “prevented Armageddon? Us? A single angel and a single demon?”

The angel winced. “Well, the Antichrist did the heavy work.”

Crawly’s mouth opened and shut several times. “You, me and the Antichrist…?” He fidgeted, splaying and curling his hands on and around the book. Right. _Right_. What the Hell was he meant to do with that information?

“And some humans.”

“Right.” Crawly nodded. Right. Course. Why not? Why wouldn’t he just… join forces with an angel and the bloody Antichrist – what was a pro-Christ when it was at home, anyway? – and some humans and go against Hell and… and apparently get his memory squeezed dry in the process? “Right. Yeah. You, me, Antichrist. Right.”

The angel was watching him and there was… something happening on his face, but Crawly had three thoughts screaming around in his head and they wouldn’t shut up enough for him to concentrate.

“Are you… are you all right, my dear?”

Crawly gaped at – you, me, Antichrist – the angel. “URK!” he said.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those eyes – as golden as the contents of the glass – stared at him, unblinking. He took another sip, never lowering his gaze, and then asked, “So what do I call you?”  
> Aziraphale fought down the flinch. “I thought you knew who I was.”  
> “Job description, yeah.” Crowley nodded. “S’not your name, is it?” A flicker of his old familiar smile appeared. “If we’re being all… civilised and stuff. I’m Crawly.” He inclined his head. “And you are?”  
> Oh, it ached. It _ached_. “Aziraphale,” he said, praying the tremor wasn’t as audible as his name hitched in his throat. “I’m Aziraphale.”

Crowley was curled around a glass of malt scotch, the best Aziraphale had stashed away for special occasions. He’d pulled his feet up onto the couch, as much of a serpentine ball as one could be with four limbs and a human-shaped spine.

He hadn’t said much for a little while and Aziraphale didn’t know what he could say to help.

Every so often, the demon tilted his hands – both curled around the glass – and took a sip of the whisky, then shuddered every time.

Aziraphale folded his hands one over the other, sitting still and quiet, hoping the silence was enough to let Crowley gather himself and his thoughts. Or should he call him Crawly? Wasn’t that how he’d introduced himself on the wall? And technically, if he could only remember a time before the wall, before the first rain.

“S’good stuff,” Crowley said suddenly, voice taut and tentative. His mouth twitched but didn’t make the necessary arrangements to result in a smile and he raised the glass a bit. “This. S’good.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said quietly. “It’s your favourite.”

Those eyes – as golden as the contents of the glass – stared at him, unblinking. He took another sip, never lowering his gaze, and then asked, “So what do I call you?”

Aziraphale fought down the flinch. “I thought you knew who I was.”

“Job description, yeah.” Crowley nodded. “S’not your name, is it?” A flicker of his old familiar smile appeared. “If we’re being all… civilised and stuff. I’m Crawly.” He inclined his head. “And you are?”

Oh, it ached. It _ached_. “Aziraphale,” he said, praying the tremor wasn’t as audible as his name hitched in his throat. “I’m Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley – no, no, Crawly. He was definitely Crawly again – said, then nodded ponderously. “Guardian of the Eastern Gate.” He sniffed, then took another sip. “S’that where I met you? At the Eastern gate?” A wary look crossed his face. “Did… if I was in the garden and you were the guard, did you smite me?”

“Smite you?” Aziraphale echoed, staring at him. Even that day, on the wall, the thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “Why would I do that?”

Crawly’s skinny shoulders rose and fell. “You guard angel, me demon?” His eyebrows rose hopefully. “That’s a no, then?”

“No.” Aziraphale shook his head. “No, not once. I’m– I prefer… not to.”

The demon gave him a long, curious stare. “But you had a flaming sword and everything. They had a brief about it. Principalities. Flaming swords. Stab-and-sear kind of affair.”

To his own surprise, Aziraphale smiled. “I gave it away,” he said and – in the most painfully perfect of echoes – Crawly’s mouth dropped opened. “You _what_?”

Aziraphale’s smile came more strongly. “You were surprised then too,” he said. “I gave it to the humans when they were sent out of the garden. Something to keep them warm, you see. The poor dear was expecting and they would’ve been unarmed and…” He tailed off at the delighted grin on the demon’s face, a flush burning up the back of his neck. “Oh, stop that.”

“You _gave_ your sword to the humans so they could keep warm?”

“Only a little!”

“Only a little?” Crawly burst out laughing. “Your _divine_ sword!” He was beaming again. “Oh, I like that!”

“I’m well aware,” Aziraphale said, gazing at him. “You didn’t stop teasing me about it for years.”

Crawly cocked his head, considering these words, then nodded. “Yeah, sounds like me.” He unfolded a little, long legs splaying out onto the floor. “You told me that? Then? First time we met?” He tilted his head the other way. “I could’ve dropped you right in it, couldn’t I?”

Aziraphale nodded. “But you never did.” He looked down at his hands. “I never realised, you know. How much trouble you kept me out of.”

Crawly wrinkled his nose. “Now _that_ doesn’t sound like me.” He turned the glass between his fingers. “Why’d’you tell me?”

This time the blush reached as far as Aziraphale’s ears. The heat of it was no doubt turning him a shade of shocking pink. “It’s silly.”

“Sillier than giving away a flaming sword?” There was that tone again, the same teasing, impish tone from the wall, accompanied by that mischievous glint in those golden eyes. “Go on. How much worse could it possibly be?”

Aziraphale fidgeted. “Well… no one had ever asked me anything before, then there you were, chatting away to me, asking me things and I meant to say none of your business and it just… sort of… popped out.”

“Gave your sword away _and_ accidentally told a demon about it?” Crawly burst out laughing. “You were really on top of your game that day, weren’t you?”

Aziraphale feigned a huff, trying to hide his relief that Crawly was still as Crowley-ish as ever, even if they weren’t… quite on the same page. “Pardon me, but I hardly expected a demon to come up, all good manners and politeness.”

“I never!” Crawly sat bolt upright in indignation.

“You did!” Oh, that was him, right there. “Gave me your name, chatted away, like we were the best of friends.” Aziraphale tried very hard not to smile. “You were very _kind_.”

“Take that back!” Crawly sputtered, outraged. “Take it back right now!”

Aziraphale remembered a wall, a former convent, and the puffed-up display of anger about as convincing as it was now. “No,” he said. Oh, he was still in there and that… it wasn’t everything, but it was something and the ache was ebbing.

“Angel!” It was no doubt meant to be a growl, but it came out more like a petulant groan.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, holding up his hands pacifyingly. “But I _have_ known you for quite some time.”

Crawly subsided in the chair with that oh-so-familiar grumble, shoulders hunching. He took a loud and unnecessarily obnoxious slurp of his whisky. “Bloody angel,” he grumbled, but his mouth was twitching a bit. He took another, more moderate sip. “Why d’you call me that?”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Call you what?”

“My dear,” Crawly said. His eyes were a little too focussed, pinning down Aziraphale’s like a nail through a board. “Never heard of an angel calling a demon dear before.”

Oh _Lord_.

“Er… well… you see…”

There was a mischievous curl to the demon’s lips. “Ah.”

It was ridiculous how easily the silly dear could send heat careening up the back of Aziraphale’s neck. “It’s a common phrase! A token word of friendship and affection!” he protested. One might say too much. “Plenty of people use it!”

Crawly snickered into his glass.

“Oh, you….” Aziraphale huffed. He retrieved his own glass from the desk, gazing at it. Crowley hadn’t know about his little stash of that particular year. He’d been saving it for him. Now, he wondered, if Crowley – as he knew him – would ever have the chance to indulge. “I– this may sound ridiculous, my… Crawly, but you really don’t remember anything about the garden? About everything that came after it?”

The demon shook his head. “Got a bit of a shock,” he said, “suddenly having no hair and wearing cloth-tubes on my legs.” He held up on leg in demonstration. “I mean, look at that! It’s like someone painted it on!” He made a face. “How’s that necessary? Nothing wrong with a bit of air around the unavailables.”

Aziraphale hid a smile behind one hand. “Fashion, I’m afraid.”

“Bleh,” Crawly grumbled and snapped his fingers. At once, the skinny jeans and fitted jacket were replaced by a painfully familiar black robe and Crawly sighed with relief, stretching his legs out. “Ah! That’s better!” He spread his feet. “Look at that! Air circulation and everything!”

Aziraphale’s smile slid away. As if his behaviour wasn’t reminder enough, the look of the thing…

Crawly gave his head a shake and his short hair tumbled into messy ringlets. “Fashion,” he grumbled, scrunching his fingers into the curls. “What a waste.” He met Aziraphale’s eyes and must have seen something in his expression, his face falling. “Oh. Right. You…” He winced. “Is this wrong? Do you want me to–” He made a flourish with his hand.

“No!” Aziraphale held up his hand at once. “No, no, it’s all right. Only a little… reminder.” He forced a brittle smile. “I had forgotten. That’s all. No need to make yourself uncomfortable on my account. Wear what you feel best in.”

The demon stared at him, another one of those long, considering, penetrating looks. “Maybe I can borrow something of yours?” he suggested at last. “I mean, I don’t like to look like… painted-cloth and this… you don’t want to see this. Maybe I can borrow something so I’m not wearing either.”

“Something of mine?” Aziraphale echoed.

Crawly nodded. “I mean, it’ll be looser than the leg tubes, won’t it? And not like my robe?” He spread his arms. “Go on. Whatever you like.”

Aziraphale stared at him, his heart twisting. Of course the silly dear would be kind. He was always so damn kind, even when he was being a sarcastic bastard. “I don’t– I can’t really–”

Crawly lifted his hand. “Could go without,” he suggested, moving his fingers as if to snap them.

“No!” Aziraphale snapped his first and at once, Crawly was in an outsized pair of breeches from the tail end of the 18th century utterly mismatched with a patterned Arran Mill woolly jumper that hung on him as loosely as the robe.

“Oh!” Crawly flapped the sleeves in delight. “It’s soft!”

He looked so excited and pleased, but something painful was curling up in Aziraphale’s chest and his eyes were burning. It wasn’t Crowley. It was… it was someone else from another time, wearing his face and it wasn’t Crowley. He pressed his hand to his eyes, trying to force down the emotions, but Crowley was _gone_ , stripped away, back to a time before Aziraphale meant anything more than a threat to him.

Abruptly, the glass was lifted out of his hand and a demon plopped down in his lap.

Aziraphale froze, startled, then tentatively lowered his hand.

“You want your dear back, don’t you?” Crawly’s golden eyes were so close and bright, like candle flames.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You… you’re perfectly charming, but you’re–”

“Not him,” Crawly agreed. “Not now.” He sighed and flung an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulder, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if Crowley had ever touched him so casually. As if he would ever have the chance. “S’pose we’ll have to work together again, eh? I mean, we both want to get my memories back, don’t we?”

“You… you do?”

Crawly nodded. “Wouldn’t you?” He grimaced. “People keep on taking things from me without ever telling me why. I want to take some of them back.” He cocked his head. “How about it, angel? Want to take on Heaven or Hell or whoever it is that’s playing silly buggers with me?”

Aziraphale stared into those unchanging golden eyes. “Eternally, my dear.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angel was on his feet, pacing and fretful.  
> Crawly was sitting on the couch again, watching him, his own legs pulled up inside the warm miniature robe he was wearing, his arms wrapped around them. Principalities were infamously strong, made to guard and to fight, soldiers through and through. This one… wasn’t.  
> Well, no, that was wrong.  
> He was strong. Only a few minutes earlier, he’d lifted Crawly off his lap, crossed the floor and set him back down on the couch. But he wasn’t still and steady as a soldier. He was constantly moving, hands fidgeting, face changing. From the look of his clothes, he was a fiddler as well, patches rubbed away by those twitchy fingers.  
> Worry did that to a person.

The angel was on his feet, pacing and fretful.

Crawly was sitting on the couch again, watching him, his own legs pulled up inside the warm miniature robe he was wearing, his arms wrapped around them. Principalities were infamously strong, made to guard and to fight, soldiers through and through. This one… wasn’t.

Well, no, that was wrong.

He _was_ strong. Only a few minutes earlier, he’d lifted Crawly off his lap, crossed the floor and set him back down on the couch. But he wasn’t still and steady as a soldier. He was constantly moving, hands fidgeting, face changing. From the look of his clothes, he was a fiddler as well, patches rubbed away by those twitchy fingers.

Worry did that to a person.

What had happened in those missing years to make an angel – a _Principality_ of all things – worry about him? It wasn’t as if he had many friends in Hell. You… couldn’t really. Whole point of the place: den of distrust and fear and wariness. And then along came this angel, hauling him into a building that felt safe and warm and welcoming, showing him without words that he was trusted and accepted and… and that Crawly was worth worrying about.

It was a new feeling. Odd. Good, but very, very odd.

“And you have no idea who did this to you?” Those storm eyes were back on him. “Hell or Heaven?”

Crawly shrugged. “No idea,” he admitted. “I mean, I remember being given my orders, but then…” He flapped a hand. “Whoever put me in that metal box thing is probably the one who did it.”

The angel ran a hand over his face. “That doesn’t narrow it down, my dear,” he said. “That was _your_ car.”

Crawly blinked at him in surprise. “Mine? I had a… car? Is that what they’re called?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale resumed pacing. “A shortening of the name carriage, a much older kind of vehicle.” He paused, frowning. “I suppose we may be able to have a look at it, see if there’s any sign of who has tampered with you.”

“Do you have one?”

The angel looked at him, bemused. “One what?”

“A car?” Crawly cocked his head. “I mean, there were _loads_ of them outside. Was one of them yours?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I’m not a great admirer of them. I don’t have your taste for speed.”

Crawly carefully pocketed that new information. Fine. So he had a… vehicle called a car that went fast because he liked to go fast. What he had seen of it, before the metal tree showed up, was all gleaming inside with wheels and dials and shiny, shiny metal. It looked _brilliant_ in the split second before it folded up against the metal tree.

“It broke a bit,” he offered. “Do you think it’ll be all right?”

The angel looked at him, the worry back all over his face. “Oh, I hope so.” He chewed on his lip, then beckoned to Crawly. “We ought to go back and check before they take it away.”

“They?” Crawly unfolded from the couch, trotting after him.

“Police, authorities, any of the human people who… deal with those sorts of things,” Aziraphale replied over his shoulder as he pulled on a different coat. He paused at the door, looking down. “You will need something a little warmer,” he said, then snapped his fingers.

Crawly stared down at his once-bare feet. The boots were beige and fleecy on the inside. “What are those?”

“The humans call them ‘Uggs’,” Aziraphale replied, distractedly looking around.

“I can see why,” Crawly said, dubiously turning his feet one way then the other.

“Oh, stop fussing,” Aziraphale said as he snatched a long trailing rope of knitted fabric from a stand and draped it around Crawly’s neck and shoulders. “You’d complain you were cold if you didn’t have them on.”

That, Crawly had to admit, was probably true. Wasn’t a big fan of the cold, him. Every little thing the angel said was another little bit of the truth about himself. It was strange, having someone who knew him so well and – apparently – liking him. My dear, he thought. And the angel said it like he meant it every time.

Outside of the building, the cars were moving. None of them had the blue flashing things on top, but only the blue and yellow coats seemed to have them. The authorities Aziraphale had mentioned, probably. Good way to get attention, big flashy light on your lid.

Crawly peered around curiously. “There’re a lot more humans about now, aren’t there?” Dozens of the things, all shapes and sizes and colours.

Aziraphale gave him a small smile. “Billions.”

The demon blinked at him. “Billions? With a Buh?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“ _Billions_?” He gaped around. “Last time I looked, there were _two_.”

The angel’s lips twitched. “They were… rather busy.”

Crawly nodded, dazed. Clearly. And they all lived here, on this messy, noisy world with shiny fast boxes and light trees and spicy amber water. And it was meant to end… and _we stopped it_. We. He and the angel. They’d stopped Armageddon. Saved this bright, exciting shiny world with its flashy lights and its furry boots and its _people_.

Well… looking at it, he was starting to see why. It was all so… so… _interesting_.

The angel reached out, hesitating only a bit, then touched his arm, steering Crawly along with him, back in the direction of the folded-up car. It was still there, strips of blue and white striped… stuff hung around it. One of the flash-cars was still there as well and a yellow-jacket was pointing the way for other cars around it.

“Stay here,” Aziraphale murmured. “I’ll go and have a look.”

Crawly nodded, cocking his head and studying the car as the angel ducked under the blue-and-white stuff. From the outside, even all crumpled up, it was big and shiny. The word ‘cool’ slid across his mind, which made no sense. It’s not like the temperature made a difference, did it?

“Back to the scene of the crime, eh?” The voice crawled down his back like a cockroach.

A demon. Another demon.

A quick sniff told him exactly who was standing beside him and he turned, grinning like he knew exactly what was going on.

“Hastur! Long time!” He gave him a cheerful smack on the arm. “How’s it going?”

The demon stared at him, his eyes solid black, then he bared his teeth, as grimy and mossy as ever. “Oh, much better.” He tilted his head, looking towards the car and – Crawly tried not to wince – the angel digging around inside it. “Ah. The Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

Crawly’s mind was going a mile a minute. Someone – Hell or Heaven – had taken his memories. He was meant to be a good little demon, sent up to cause trouble. A demon like that wouldn’t be caught dead fraternizing with an angel. At least, not in a friendly way. And the way Hastur was smiling – gloating, pleased, unpleasant – said he liked the new state of affairs. Well, he always was a bit of a nasty bugger, wasn’t he?

“Dopey bastard got it into his head that I’m a friendly demon,” Crawly said, twisting his face. “You should’ve seen the way he looked at me.” He leaned closer to Hastur, as if they were allies and friends. “I’m playing along. See what I can get out of him.”

The wide and nasty grin told him this was exactly what Hastur wanted to hear. “Ha! He has it coming, bloody angel.”

“Yeah,” Crawly nudged him. “Bugger off, though. Can’t let him suspect anything.”

Hastur chuckled. “See if you can’t break him, Crowley.”

“That’s not my name,” Crawly said with a snort. “You know that.”

The glitter in Hastur’s eyes gave him more of an answer than any mangled car. “So it is. Crawly.” He nodded and was gone, leaving nothing but the foulest of smells lingering behind him, and an unpleasant knot twisting up in Crawly’s middle.

He edged his way under the blue-white boundaries, ducking under it. “Angel!”

Aziraphale was sitting in the seat behind the wheel. He had something closed in his hand, but when he looked at Crawly, it was like a chasm had opened up between them. The angel’s face was flat and still, his mouth a narrow line.

“It was Hell,” Crawly blurted out, as if that could bridge it. “Hell did this.”

It was like shutters had come down behind those storm eyes. “Oh, I know.”

And, not for the first time, Crawly felt the horrible aching void of loss of something he hadn’t realised he wanted and needed until suddenly and without warning, it was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Crawly is now wearing Pterry's scarf from the bookshop.


	5. Chapter 5

The walk back to the bookshop felt interminable.

Aziraphale tightened his fist around the dial from the Bentley’s radio. It had been torn off and not by the impact. Hell had spoken through the radio in the past. At his best guess, Crowley – in a fit of desperation – had tried to wrench it off before they… did whatever they had done.

The demon with his face and none of his memories was hurrying along with him with long-legged strides. “Why do you think they did it?” he asked, a distracting blur of red hair and cream and brown wool at Aziraphale’s side.

_Why? Oh, my dear boy, you made that clear enough. When you conspire, perhaps learn to do it in a whisper, not standing within earshot while in conclave with another demon. They did it because they knew I would let you in. They did it because they knew I would trust you, no matter what. They did it, because I’m stupid and weak and soft._

“Aziraphale?” Crawly asked.

He looked at the demon. Crawly had… he had been so very convincing. “Because you’re very useful to them, I have no doubt,” he said, praying the brittle ice in his voice didn’t break. “The demon who led to the fall of mankind? Why wouldn’t they want to bring you back into the fold?”

Crawly frowned. “But if they know we were friends, why did they think you wouldn’t help me?”

It was like the unseen blade, sliding between Aziraphale’s ribs and cutting right to the heart of him. “We weren’t friends,” he said and the lie burned. “Not–” Those golden eyes were the same. They’re still the same and he stared at them. “Not in the beginning. Not then. It took a long time.”

Crawly seemed to shrink under his look, rubbing anxiously at his forearms with his bony hands. “And now?”

Oh Lord. He was a _demon_. He wasn’t the Crowley who shared drinks and oysters and laughter and folly under the stars. He was barely even the demon who stood on the wall and hid under his wing when the rain began to pour. He’s a demon and he _can’t_ be trusted. He can’t be. He said as much to Hastur. He made his position clear, even if he doesn’t realise it.

And he stood, staring, wide-eyed and worried, and sweet Christ, Aziraphale had never wanted to go and get completely… oh, what’s the term Crowley loves? – loved? – Rat-arsed? Yes. That’s it. Hammered. Wrecked. Smashed. Decimated. That’s how he felt right there and then.

“Aziraphale?” There was a fearful edge to Crawly’s voice. “You– I– you’ll help me, won’t you?”

Aziraphale opened his hand, touching the dial. Crowley had tried to stop whatever they were doing to him and he had failed. There was no one else who would help him, no one but Aziraphale who even _could_ help him. Even if that meant taking a risk, guarding one’s back against an enemy wearing a friend’s face.

“Yes,” he said, his voice wavering. “Yes. I said I would.” He tried to smile. “Didn’t I?”

The relief lit Crawly’s face and Aziraphale had to turn away, wincing at the fresh knife between the ribs. Maybe he misheard, misunderstood what was said. Why would Crawly ask for his help if he wanted to get something else out of him? What could he gain from it?

 _Can’t let him suspect anything_.

Damn it.

Damn it all.

“Come on,” he said, feeling tired and wretched and every one of his thousands of years.

Back in the shop, he closed the door behind them and locked it. The shutters unfolded down at the snap of his fingers and he flicked the switch to put the lights on. The world could stay outside. They had business to attend to.

Crawly shuffled out of his furry boots, looking oddly vulnerable, barefoot and drowned in Aziraphale’s oversized jumper. “You’re angry,” he said.

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “No. Not angry.”

“Sad?” the demon said, trailing after him into the back of the shop. “Something? You– the squashed car upset you, didn’t it?”

Of course it did, he wanted to scream and rage. Of course it did! They took away my best and truest friend and left me the ruins of the thing he loved most. They stole him from him. They stole him from himself! They did it somewhere he felt safe and happy and bloody reckless and–

“Can I help?”

Aziraphale’s thoughts clattered to a halt. “Pardon?”

Crawly shrugged, all bones and rumpled wool. “I know I’m not exactly… up-to-date on anything, but you’re helping me. Can I help you?”

Stupid, gentle, kind idiot of a demon, Aziraphale thought bleakly. It would be so much simpler if the lines were clean-cut. Black and white. Good and evil. No moral grey. No questioning. No doubts. But that had always been the way with them, hadn’t it? Even on the wall. Even when they should have been enemies.

He dropped his eyes to the floor, trying to gather himself, his thoughts, his words. Such a simple thing, an offer of help. Crowley didn’t even bother to offer half the time. A wide-eyed look from Aziraphale, and he’d bend over backwards to make things better. And now this… definitely not Crowley was–

He staggered when a body crashed into his, flinching in panic when arms tightened around his ribs, and Crawly squeezed him. His hand was halfway raised to call down his power when he realised… realised what was happening. The arms were around him, but not squeezing painfully. Crawly’s face was in the crook of his neck. The demon was… hugging him?

“Crawly…?”

“Mm?” Crawly’s breath was hot and shivering on his neck. “Bad?”

Bad?

Aziraphale stared helplessly over the mess of red curls. No. Not bad. Not… right, but not bad. Warm and steady and his eyes were brimming and hot and overflowing. He lifted a shaking hand to the tangle of Crawly’s hair, touching it, cautious, careful, as if it, he, they might come apart at the seams.

“Why?” he whispered.

The demon’s shoulders jumped, but his grip didn’t loosen. “Felt right,” he mumbled. “To do this. Stupid, I know.”

Aziraphale curled his fingers, the long red hair as heavy as raw silk between his fingers. “He would never–” he began, then bit the words off before he could say something more. Something… useful that Hell might use.

Crawly’s fingers dug into his back. “Bet he wanted to,” he replied in a rough whisper. He took a deeper breath and exhaled, a hot gust on Aziraphale’s throat. “ _I_ wanted to. I’m him, aren’t I? Even a little bit?”

Aziraphale’s lips trembled and he pressed his eyes shut. Oh, he was. Even a little bit. Far more than a little bit. The whispers before the storm, the pebble before the landslide, the snowflake before the avalanche. “Yes,” he whispered, as buried his fingers in Crawly’s hair and hot tears streaked silently down his cheeks.


	6. Chapter 6

Crawly didn’t know what he was meant to be doing. Instinct seemed to be working out all right, even if the angel had frozen up and flinched when he tried hugging at first. He’d heard the humans did that for comfort and reassurance somewhere in the Lust briefing. It seemed like a good idea when Aziraphale was upset.

They’d stood like that for a long while, Aziraphale’s hand in his hair. Upset. That’s what it was. Distress. Grief. Crawly could remember what that was like and could remember a time before, not long… well, not long ago to him, but long ago now.

All the reactions to grief were different. He’d heard of them. Hell, he’d probably tried all of them. Denial and anger and everything.

Aziraphale seemed to be having them all at the same time and it… he didn’t know the angel. He _didn’t_. Couldn’t remember him from before, but when he was standing there, eyes down, his face all shivering and looking like he might crumble, all Crawly could think was that he needed to be held together. Humans came up with that. Arms around, a bit of scaffolding to help. And Aziraphale _had_ held onto him for a good long bit of it, silent and shaking and wet-faced.

When they finally came apart, the angel had looked more embarrassed than anything, hands clasping and twisting all over again.

Don’t, Crawly wanted to say. Don’t worry. It’s all right to be upset. I won’t laugh.

But he didn’t say it, because saying it – saying anything – felt like it would make things worse. So he followed his instinct that said the angel needed some of the spicy amber drink. He headed into the food-and-drink room and found the bottle, filling a glass to the brim. The liquid wobbled against the lip of the glass as he carried it, concentrating hard on not spilling a drop.

And that, of all things, got a damp laugh out of the angel.

“Oh my _dear_ ,” Aziraphale said, suddenly in front of him, hands cupped under Crawly’s. “You don’t need to do that.”

Crawly gave him a hopeful grin. “I thought it might help. It’s good stuff.”

The angel gave him such a… soft look, like a smile hidden in curved creases around his mouth, and snapped his fingers. Immediately, the liquid was divided between two glasses, one in his hand and the other still in Crawly’s. “We could both use it, I think.”

Crawly nodded, relieved, then caught the angel by the arm. “And we should sit,” he said, hauling Aziraphale over to the couch and flopping down on it.

The angel hesitated, looking between the space beside him and the chair. Crawly wriggled up a bit to give him more room, smoothing the cushion for him and those soft, bracketing lines appeared again, the sad secret smile, and the angel sat down beside him.

“You’re… very kind,” he said carefully, as if expecting Crawly to kick off in indignation again.

Crawly knocked his elbow against the angel’s. “Don’t tell anyone.” He took a mouthful of the amber stuff, shuddering pleasantly as it burned down his throat, then smacked his lips. “So what do we do now? I mean, we know Hell took my memories. We can’t just… waltz in there and ask them to put them back can we? It’s not as if they’d want to help me.”

“I should research it,” Aziraphale said, glancing across the shop to all those hundreds of thousands of books. “I don’t know if– I may be able to find something, but I…” He looked down into his glass. “I don’t…”

Crawly could see the unhappiness in the way his shoulders slumped and his eyes were wet and shiny again. “You don’t know if there’s any way to undo it?” he guessed.

Aziraphale’s lips tightened into a thin line and he shook his head. Between his fingers, the glass turned round and round.

What was it like, Crawly wondered, to see someone you cared about right in front of you but know you’d never really see them again? Bloody awful, that was what. At least he didn’t remember what he’d lost. At least he had the easy job. Still, didn’t make it easier, watching the angel curling in like that, like he could fold himself in and in and in until he was gone.

Cautiously, he put his arm around the angel’s shoulders and squeezed him again. “You’ll find something,” he said.

Stormy eyes looked at him, flooding again. “You can’t know that.”

Crawly sniffed. “Well, you stopped Armageddon. Whole armies of Heaven and Hell, wasn’t it? Got the Antichrist on your side. Made friends with a demon. Don’t know anyone else who could’ve done any of those things.” He squeezed him again, since it seemed to help a bit. “This should be a walk in the park for you.”

And there it was, a little glimmer of brightness. “You really think so?”

Crawly nodded. “And anyway,” he added, “It’s not like I’m going to be much use, is it? Look! I’ll go and get a box-thing made of tree-slices with patterns I don’t know!”

That made the angel laugh quietly. He moved his hand, then hesitated and gingerly – as if he expected another response – patted Crawly’s knee. “I’m sure you’ll have your uses.”

“Drink-getter,” Crawly said at once. “Drink-drinker.” He dropped his head onto the angel’s shoulder, forcing himself to say the words he didn’t want to say. “They’re going to call me in, y’know. Hell. To… see how I’m doing. What trouble I’m causing.”

If he hadn’t been so close, he’d never have noticed the ripple of tension that returned to the angel’s body, the tightness spreading across his shoulders. “Oh. Yes. Of course they will.” His hand returned to his glass and it started turn-turn-turning again. “Don’t…” He made a small, pained sound. “Don’t make them angry, will you?”

Crawly lifted his head to look at the angel. “Worrying about me, angel?”

Aziraphale didn’t look at him, but he did nod, just a little bit. “We’re already in enough trouble. We can’t afford to make things worse.”

Crawly made a face at him. “What could they possibly do that’s worse than this?”

A strange expression crossed Aziraphale’s face. “Oh, I’m sure they could come up with something.” He turned and smiled, thin-lipped and nowhere near his eyes. “But you’re useful to them now, so I don’t think you should have anything to worry about, as long as you do what you’re told.”

“Eugh.” Crawly sprawled back on the couch. “Yeah. Back on the old orders. Fantastic.”

“Crow– Crawly,” Aziraphale scolded gently. “Please. I– we _can’t_ make things worse.”

Crawly gazed at him. He was really afraid, wasn’t he? No wonder. And probably had even worse fears bubbling around in that clever head of his. “How d’you know I won’t just… I dunno… sign back up with them? See if I can make a deal with them for my memories?”

Aziraphale looked at him, his face doing that strange, flat, emotionless thing again. “I suppose I would just have to trust you not to.” He turned his attention back to the glass between his hands. “I… the decision is yours, of course. I would… understand.”

And he believed that. Every tightly flattened line of his face, the careful mask, said that yes, he would let Crawly betray him if it meant he could be himself again. He would probably even volunteer for his own destruction to get his friend back.

And Crawly _hated_ the thought of it.

“Well,” he said, scooting forward on the seat. “You’d better get researching then, eh? So I don’t have to?” He knocked Aziraphale’s knee with his own. “Bet you can do it quicker than they ever would too.”

Storm eyes brightened a bit. “Yes,” Aziraphale said. “Well… I’ll do my best.”

Crawly gazed at him and his worried eyes and the lines on his face and the softness of him. “Yeah,” he said and – for some reason – clinked his glass against the angel’s. “I know you will.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The summons from Hell didn’t come at once.  
> Aziraphale tried to bury himself in research, digging through any books about demonic tampering with memories and thoughts, but it was almost impossibly difficult with Crawly there, an echo of Crowley, similar enough to make him doubt himself, but not the same.  
> The demon tried to help where he could, but most of his time was spent poking through the shop, exclaiming with excitement and delight about the globes, the electric lights, the umbrella in the stand by the door and all the little things Aziraphale had come to take for granted. Sometimes, he pressed up against the window, peering out into the street, watching the humans hurrying by, rapt with wonder.

The summons from Hell didn’t come at once.

Aziraphale tried to bury himself in research, digging through any books about demonic tampering with memories and thoughts, but it was almost impossibly difficult with Crawly there, an echo of Crowley, similar enough to make him doubt himself, but not the same.

The demon tried to help where he could, but most of his time was spent poking through the shop, exclaiming with excitement and delight about the globes, the electric lights, the umbrella in the stand by the door and all the little things Aziraphale had come to take for granted. Sometimes, he pressed up against the window, peering out into the street, watching the humans hurrying by, rapt with wonder.

Once, Aziraphale had risked taking him out for something to eat. It only made the contrast more sharply clear as Crawly picked up and tried everything, licking sticky syrup from his fingers, biting and immediately spitting out a tomato, even devouring an entire bowl of linguine and delighting in the splatter as he slurped it up.

Every reminder, every difference, was like a fresh wound. Death by a thousand cuts, slowly bleeding out.

It wasn’t… ignoring the problem to insist he needed to focus on his books. It wasn’t cowardice that made him try to concentrate on the words that could help and ignoring – what a lie. Trying to ignore – the demon as he worked. It was impossible to ignore him, his presence, even his scent as Crawly entertained himself wandering around in the shop.

It was worse when Crawly sprawled out and fell asleep on the couch in the dark of the night. The demon was all limbs and masses of unruly red hair. He always looked as if he had tripped into a sprawl and just fallen asleep in the process, one arm folded over his head, one leg slung over the arm of the couch, Aziraphale’s woolly jumper rucked up around his middle.

Worse, simply because Aziraphale didn’t have to hide his careful looks and so, he didn’t. He’d found himself sitting, staring, for hours. Several times, he rose and gently drew a blanket over the demon and, because Lord knew he was soft as butter, gently smoothed it in place, tucking him in. Crawly never had liked the cold.

He _could_ remember Crowley when he was like this, amicable and mischievous and without the soft edges knocked off him by centuries of watching the worst of humanity bashing away at each other. That was what made it so dreadful.

If they succeeded and recovered his memories – no. When. He had to believe it was a matter of time – all those millennia of watching humanity spinning towards chaos would crash back in on him. Crawly as he was now would be gone all over again. Would he remember this time? Would he remember smiling and plying Aziraphale with alcohol, his eyes uncovered and unguarded, warm and affectionate and not at all cautious? Or if they failed and Crawly continued his machinations for Hell, Aziraphale knew he would have to watch as everything about his dearest friend was undone from the inside out.

He had to force himself not to think about it, to purely focus on the task at hand, even though it hummed along the edge of his senses like the buzz of humanity outside the door. Even with books piled around him, day after day, it was there, a finger running along the rim of a celestial wineglass.

Several days – maybe a week? It was hard to be sure – had gone by when a crash from the front of the shop had Aziraphale out of his chair and through. Crawly was sprawled on the floor, staring at the window. A workman was playing a radio ridiculously loudly as he worked on the road outside.

“It spoke to me!” Crawly exclaimed, scrambling up. “The… soundbox!”

Aziraphale’s heart dropped like a rock. “Hell?”

Crawly nodded, rubbing his elbow, then winced, looking around. Books were scattered everywhere. “Must’ve bumped the table,” he said. “I– is that how they always do it?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.” Aziraphale approached him cautiously. “Are you… are you all right?”

Crawly’s expression was painfully raw. “Well, we knew they’d be in touch, didn’t we?” He took a shaking breath. “They told me where to go. I…” He looked towards the door. “S’pose I should.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what possessed him, but he caught Crawly’s thin wrist in his hand. “You don’t _have_ to go, my dear,” he said, praying he didn’t sound as desperate as he feared. “You would be safe here, you know.” Stay here. Turn your back on Hell. Stay with _me_. “I would protect you.”

The demon’s golden eyes fixed on his face. “I’ll be all right,” he said. “I will. They can’t do anything worse than this to me.”

A courtroom flitted across Aziraphale’s mind’s eye. A trial. A pitcher of crystal clear water. The screams of a dying demon. “Don’t say that.” His voice broke. “Please don’t.”

Crawly covered Aziraphale’s hand on his wrist. “They wanted me like this. They think I’m useful to them like this. That’s what they want.” He smiled, but it wasn’t very convincing. “I’ll be _fine_. Don’t worry.”

Don’t worry.

As if that was possible anymore, when they were lost in the woods without even a trail of breadcrumbs to lead them home.

It must’ve shown on his face, because Crawly threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders, holding tightly to him and Aziraphale couldn’t stop his arms from closing around Crawly’s waist.

“I’ll be fine.” Crawly sounded so certain now. Firm and determined. “Go in, best demonic behaviour, come back.” He gave Aziraphale another squeeze. “Might even get some useful information while I’m down there, eh?” He rubbed his chin along Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Trust me?”

_See if you can’t break him, Crowley._

Aziraphale pressed his eyes shut. Crawly hadn’t done anything to harm him. But then, he didn’t really have to, did he? The entire situation was doing his job for him. And yet, the hugs, the smiles, the genuine, bright-eyed warmth made him whisper, “I do.”

“Mm.” Crawly didn’t step back, rubbing his hand up and down the middle of Aziraphale’s back. “No. Not yet.” He patted Aziraphale’s back again, gently. “I’ll be back as soon as I can be, I swear.”

Aziraphale reluctantly loosened his grip, but only after he’d blinked hard enough to clear his vision. He dragged on a smile, though his cheeks ached from it. “I’ll be here…” He waved a vague hand towards his desk, although he had a feeling that was the last thing he would be capable of doing, at least until Crawly returned.

Crawly looked down at himself, running his hand over the jumper. “D’you think I should put something more… Helly on? Like those leg-tubes I had one when–”

“No.” Aziraphale startled himself with the immediacy of his response. It was silly and possessive, but seeing Crawly in his oversized jumper made everything a little easier. Not much, but a little. He reached out and straightened the shoulders. “If you go in, dressed as you normally do, they’ll… it may not convince them. Being as un-Crowley-like as possible is the best course of action.”

“Right.” The demon straightened up. “What’s a Canary Wharf? And how do I get there?”

“Oh Lord…” Aziraphale pressed his fingers to his eyelids. “Of course. I can arrange a taxi for you.”

“One of those shiny black car things?” Crawly’s eyes lit up.

Aziraphale couldn’t help the small smile that crept across his lips. In the world less than a month and already picking up on the love of cars. “Yes, my dear,” he said, “one of those shiny black car things.” Not quite the Bentley, but it would have to do. “When do you want to go?”

“Now?” Crawly said. “Get it over with?”

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s smile ached its way across his face. “Of course.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Riding in a car that wasn’t about to hit a metal light-tree – lamp post, Aziraphale had told him – was fantastic. A bit on the slow side, but from what Crawly could see of the dials, it could go much, much faster. Even if the human kept on yelling at him to sit back in the seat and not lean against the window between them.   
> It didn’t take long – but could’ve been quicker – to get to the building where he was meant to go.  
> There would be sets of moving stairs, Aziraphale told him. He needed to walk onto the ones on the left, so he did, unsurprised when he immediately tilted into a chillier, damper, darker world. The stink of it hit him like… well… a lamp post.   
> Hell.

Riding in a car that wasn’t about to hit a metal light-tree – lamp post, Aziraphale had told him – was _fantastic_. A bit on the slow side, but from what Crawly could see of the dials, it could go much, much faster. Even if the human kept on yelling at him to sit back in the seat and not lean against the window between them.

It didn’t take long – but could’ve been quicker – to get to the building where he was meant to go.

There would be sets of moving stairs, Aziraphale told him. He needed to walk onto the ones on the left, so he did, unsurprised when he immediately tilted into a chillier, damper, darker world. The stink of it hit him like… well… a lamp post.

Hell.

One thing that seemed to be exactly as he remembered.

He wove his way through the grimy, dark halls, spotting a few more modern touches here and there. Some sheets of paper on the walls with words on them. A strange buzzing, whirring sound that went right down your back like nails on a board. Different kinds of clothes instead of the mess of scorched and torn robes.

“Demon Crawly!”

He turned, searching out the voice.

Lord Beelzebub swept through the thronging demons, looking him slowly up and down, their watery eyes giving nothing away. “This way,” they snapped, turning on their heel and striding away. Crawly hurried after them.

“Been decorating?” he asked. “Got some new… paper thingies up.”

Beelzebub grunted, shoving open a door and giving him a look. Crawly strode in, as if he knew exactly what he’d find on the other side. Mercifully, there were only a couple of demons. Hastur, he knew, but the other one didn’t ring any bells. There was also, weirdly, a shining mirrored wall. He peered at it, then leaned closer, staring at his hair.

“Not bad!” he declared. He’d tried braiding it for the first time a couple of days ago, and all things considered, it was a small victory and – for a second – a distraction from the fact he was in a room with a bunch of people who might have pulled out his memories. He swung back around to face the other demons. “So… what’s up?” He flashed a hopefully-convincing grin at Hastur. “I bet you want to know how I’m getting on, eh?” He waggled his fingers. “Messing with the angel?”

“Like I said,” Hastur said with that nasty grin of his, “How’s the breaking going?”

Crawly’s eyes flicked from one to the other. They were watching him like they were waiting for something, so he screwed up his face, scratched his chin. “Well…” He shrugged. No reason to lie, really. Even if he wasn’t doing anything on purpose. The truth was easier to keep track of and a lot more useful. “He’s upset a lot. Tries to act like he isn’t.”

Beelzebub hummed like a swarm. “Yesss, but izzz he breaking?”

“Hard to tell with an angel,” Crawly lied, rocking on the balls of his feet. He darted out his tongue to lick at his dry lips. A woolly jumper in Hell had seemed like a good idea, but this room seemed a lot warmer than the rest. “They’re all… oh poor thing, poor dear, let me help you, aren’t they? It’s all…” He frowned, darting his tongue out again. A scent he might have missed caught his attention.

“It’s all?” The third demon prompted, raising her scaled eyebrows.

“All?” Crawly said, frowning, trying to catch that scent.

“You said it’s all something?”

“Oh. Oh! Er…” He scratched his fingers through his hair, his words escaping him. Handily, though, he had an excuse. “Slipped my mind.” He grinned winningly. “Happens, doesn’t it? Brain like a thing with holes in it these days.”

If he hadn’t been watching, he’d never have noticed the sidelong looks that flicked between Beelzebub and the third demon. Or the glance Beelzebub gave the mirror. Strange, that. Beelzebub wasn’t one for vanity. Hadn’t been since… well, since obvious things had happened.

And that bloody scent… what was it?

It was familiar.

“This angel is the only known earthbound one of Heaven’s denizens,” Beelzebub said, getting in the way of his concentration. “We need to be sure it is rendered completely harmless.”

“Harmless. Yeah.” He nodded again, wandering in a circle that brought him closer to the mirror. There! The scent was stronger the closer he got. “So… any ideas how I can do that? I mean, I’m trying my best, but he’s a stubborn bastard. Plays his cards close to the chest.”

Hastur snorted. “You’re the one who knew–”

“Who knew the best ways to tempt people,” Third demon again, shooting a poisonous look at Hastur. Crawly fought down the urge to hiss at Hastur too. He _knew_ , the bastard, and had almost slipped up. “I would assume it’s just a matter of finding a weakness.”

“Yeah,” Crawly sighed dramatically, slouching back against the mirror and almost immediately leaned away. It was _warm_. Like it had heating unlike every other cold, clammy room in Hell. Except, of course, the lower sulphur pits, but you didn’t get there when you were on earth duty. Heating a mirror? No, that didn’t make sense. Heating… behind a mirror. A hidden room maybe? “But angels. What kind of weaknesses do they even have? I mean, apart from Hellfire, but–”

“We don’t want to raise any alarms in Heaven,” Beelzebub said sharply. “ _No_ Hellfire.”

Interesting. Very specific, that. Crawly turned, peering at the mirror. Couldn’t see anyone through it, so made a show of checking his teeth, licking at them and picking between them with a nail.

And yeah. Whatever was smelling was right behind that mirror and it was in a hidden warm alcove and was _watching_ them. Well, that wasn’t creepy at all, was it? In fact, it sounded more like something that…

Crawly feigned preening his hair and took another cautious sniff.

Oh.

Oh _shit_.

He spun back around. “So. Right. No Hellfire. Any other weaknesses? I mean apart from – apparently – me?” His heart was thundering and was he smiling a bit too wide? Did it matter? Nah. Probably not. As long as he smiled _enough_ so he could get the Hell out. “Or d’you want me to just keep poking at him til I find something?”

Beelzebub’s face twisted. “It will have to be suffizzzzzient.” They looked him up and down. “Try to dress more… appropriately next time.”

Crawly nodded. It was too quickly, wasn’t it? Too eager and obedient and oh, sit, he just wanted to get out and away. “All black, maybe? Flash of red?” He tugged on the jumper. “Beige isn’t really my colour, is it?”

The Prince of Hell gave him a disdainful look. “I’m talking about thozzzzzzze,” they said, gesturing to his feet and the furry boots Aziraphale had provided him with. “We have standardzzzzz.”

“It’s cold up there!” Crawly protested. He rocked on his feet again, trying very hard not to look back at the mirror and see who was behind it. “That everything? Shall I…?” He jerked his thumb upwards.

Beelzebub nodded. “We expect updatezzzz,” they buzzed.

Crawly swept into a definitely far too dramatic bow, all flappy hands and everything as he edged his way around the room and out of the door. No one coming from behind the mirror, so that was good. Just observation. “Of course, my Lord. Will do my best. Not a problem. I’ll just… pop in if anything changes.”

The door slammed behind him and he managed to hold himself upright, walking as quickly as the milling crowds would let him, head straight for the moving stairs, straight for the way out, straight for the world and as soon as he got there, he staggered into the daylight, breathing too hard. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. They were in so much trouble.

He stared around wildly.

The black car was gone. The buildings were all tall and he was surrounded by them and in a strange place and– and he didn’t know how to get back.

“Aziraphale,” he breathed, closing his eyes and reaching with everything he had. “Where the Hell are you? I can’t find you!”


	9. Chapter 9

Aziraphale surveyed the sad ruin of twisted metal and broken glass in front of him.

Technically, he ought to have continued to read the books, but with the words blurring in front of him and his worst nightmares playing out in his mind – of water and screams and an empty bath tub in bleak, dark hallways – it felt simpler to take refuge in action so he had recovered Crowley’s car, which was now sitting in front of the book shop.

He hesitated, then ran his hand along the side of the Bentley. The crumpled surface was cold and it felt… empty. It was as much as part of Crowley as the bookshop was a part of him and if it was permanently and irrevocably damaged, then what did that mean for its owner?

No.

No, that didn’t bear thinking about.

He spread both hands on the ruined bonnet, trying to ignore how much they were shaking. The metal screamed and shifted and he thought of Crowley, of his distress when the car had exploded in flames, of his grief then, of how Aziraphale couldn’t allow that to happen again. Crackling and snapping, the pieces twisted, reforming, miracle upon miracle coursing through him.

And staggered, falling against the car when Crawly’s voice rang through his head, panicked, terrified.

Panting, he leaned against the half-reformed car. _Here_ , he called out. _Find me_.

The air sizzled for a split second then a body slammed into his and Crawly’s arms were tight around him. He was shaking wildly, clinging as if he was afraid he might get ripped away.

“My dear?” Aziraphale managed, gathering himself, straightening up.

“Inside,” Crawly gasped out. “Quick!”

Aziraphale nodded, not sure which of them was leaning more on the other, as they stumbled back into the shop. He closed the door behind them and watched, alarmed, as Crawly half-ran, half-fell to drag down every shutter and close every latch. The demon looked terrified, grey-faced and wide-eyed, something Aziraphale had never seen in him before.

“Crawly,” he said, starting after the demon, trying to catch up with him. “Stop! What did they do?”

“Need to be secure first,” Crawly said, darting around him, running through to the back of the shop. There were no blinds or shutters there, but he frantically tugged at the curtains, swearing and trembling so much he almost wrenched them off the rails.

“Crawly!” Aziraphale caught up with him, catching him by the shoulders, drawing him back. “My dear, please!”

The demon swung around, staring at him as if he was a stranger. “We’re fucked, angel. We’re _fucked_.”

Another place, another time, surged to mind and Aziraphale’s world swam alarmingly.

But… but they had survived that time.

“I mean I knew it was going to be bad, but I didn’t think they’d be getting up to that and I wanted to try and find out what I could and now they think that–”

“Crawly!” Aziraphale reached up, gently capturing Crawly’s panicked face between his hands. “Crawly, breathe!” He drew the demon’s head closer, pressing their brows together. “Deep breath, my dear. Let me help.”

“But you don’t know what they–”

“And panicking yourself won’t help you either,” Aziraphale said gently, wishing he could stop time, give them a space, a place of quiet and calm like Crowley had all those months ago. “Breathe with me, my dear? Will you?”

Terrified eyes stared at him, then Crawly nodded, clutching at his wrists.

Aziraphale breathed in, soft and slow and to his relief, Crawly followed. In, hold, out. In, hold out. He smiled as much and as convincingly as he could and stroked his thumbs along Crawly’s cheeks. They were cold and wet and his eyes were welling up again. In, hold, out. Over and over, he kept on doing it until Crawly shivered and his shoulders sagged.

“There,” Aziraphale said softly, stroking his hands down to the demon’s shoulders. “Better?”

Crawly dropped his head forward to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his arms coiling around the angel’s waist. “’S.”

Aziraphale ran his hand soothingly over the demon’s hair, his own heart thundering. “Now, what has you so worried?”

Crawly’s fingers dug briefly, painfully, into his back, then he lifted his face. “Gabriel,” he whispered. “He was _there_.”

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale stared at him. “In Hell?”

Crawly nodded, fingers kneading spasmodically. “Behind a mirror. Couldn’t see him, but could smell him. He was watching them – Beelzebub and the others – with me. They told…” He shuddered. “They told me to break you and _he_ was there.” He shook his head. “This isn’t just Hell after me, angel. This is Heaven and Hell after you as well.”

Oh.

In hindsight, he should have realised. Heaven and Hell had worked together before. And if they had focussed their sights on Crowley first, that meant Heaven had to be pulling the strings, because… because…

“They’re afraid of me,” he said with dawning realisation.

Crawly blinked at him. “You what?”

“Heaven.” He smiled, more strongly than he had in days. “They wanted to take me out of the equation, didn’t they?”

Crawly nodded. “Make you harmless, they said.”

“Ah.” He lifted his hand to gently wipe Crawly’s cheek. “Which means Heaven is more afraid of me than Hell was of you.”

Crawly eyed him doubtfully and Aziraphale wasn’t surprised. “Heaven’s afraid of you? Is this…” He flapped a hand. “When you did Armageddon stuff, is that why?”

That made Aziraphale truly smile. “Oh no, my dear,” he said, drawing Crawly’s arms apart. “Come and sit down. I think I ought to tell you exactly what happened, so you can understand why they’re behaving like this.”

“Because saying something like that won’t make me dread what’s coming,” Crawly said with a snort.

“Don’t blame me, my dear. A greater part of it was your idea.” Aziraphale steered him over to the couch and sat with him, unsurprised when Crawly sat as close as possible without being in his lap. “Now… where to begin…” He frowned, then smiled. “Ah. Yes. When you delivered the Antichrist.”

Crawly goggled at him, eyes bulging. “Gnee???”

“Oh! Not… delivered-delivered!” Aziraphale said hastily. “Only… handed him over. There was a basket involved. And some nuns.”

“Thank Satan for that!” Crawly exclaimed. “Me? Delivering? With these hips?”

Aziraphale gazed at him fondly and couldn’t help reaching over to squeeze his hand. “Oh, do be quiet, my dear.” He looked down as Crawly’s fingers threaded between his, a strange warmth spreading in the middle of his chest. How could he have doubted that Crawly and Crowley were the same? How could he have suspected a betrayal from the only person who had stood by his side without question for so many centuries? “Um…” He swallowed hard, then began, “It was just over eleven years ago…”

Crawly didn’t interrupt once as he told the tale, though he tried to summarise, rather than detail every dandelion and daisy of the situation. Once or twice, the demon sniggered or made a face, but when they reached Armageddon itself, his hand tightened on Aziraphale’s.

“So he just told him to bugger off?” he finally broke in. “Like that? Just ‘you’re not my dad’ and old Morningstar just _left_?”

“Belief is a powerful thing,” Aziraphale murmured, “and Heaven and Hell both believed everything they were told about the Antichrist, including the fact that he would shape reality to his wishes.”

“His will be done…” the demon said, dazed. “And that’s why they came after us? Because you swan-dived out of Heaven and possessed a human and worked with a demon to muck up their plans? I can see why they’d be a bit afraid of you.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale shook his head. “They _did_ come after us. There was a last prophecy, you see. From the book.” He glanced down at their hands again, their fingers fitting so neatly together. “Choose your faces wisely, because soon enough you shall be playing with fire.”

Crawly’s eyebrows arched. “And?”

“And our respective houses put us on trial. Condemned us both. You to Holy Water, I to Hellfire.”

There was a long silence. “Can’t help noticing we’re both still here.”

“Mm.”

Crawly turned their joined hands over. Aziraphale could see his mind working in the furrow of his brow and the curve of his lip. “Choose your faces wisely…” he murmured, turning their hands back and over, then his eyes widened. “We _didn’t_.”

“Didn’t?” Aziraphale prompted, smiling.

“Choose each other’s faces for the trial?” Aziraphale squashed down his smile as the demon gave a shout of mirth. “They _told_ me not to use Hellfire on you! They were very specific about that!” A grin lit his face. “Because they think it doesn’t work! That’s it, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale nodded. “And they’re convinced you’re immune to Holy Water too.”

Crawly whistled through his teeth. “No wonder they wanted us out of the picture. Can you imagine the chaos we would cause? I got in enough trouble for asking questions, but if any angels find out about us and start asking and doubting and…” He stared at Aziraphale. “They must be _terrified_ of you.”

“Too afraid to come after me directly, it seems,” Aziraphale agreed.

“So they came at you through me.” Crawly’s face twisted in anger. “Those bastards.”

“They know my weakness,” Aziraphale admitted, then bit his tongue, heat rising in his cheeks.

Crawly stared at him, then flashed that wicked grin of his. “You’re so soft, angel.”

“So I’m told,” Aziraphale said and squeezed his hand.

This time, it was Crawly who blushed. “So,” he said, looking away and tugging at Aziraphale’s hand. “What do we do?”

Aziraphale’s smile turned a shade darker. “I have an idea.”


	10. Chapter 10

There was a flat expanse of roof above the bookshop, framing the glass dome, and that’s where Crawly had retreated to. He sat on the edge of the dome, his feet braced on the metal window frames, staring blindly ahead.

Aziraphale’s plan made sense. It was dangerous and reckless and more than a bit stupid, but it made sense and right now, it was all they had. The angel had gone out to get supplies, leaving Crawly to climb the walls and worry himself sick about everything.

If it all went right, then he might get his memories back.

If it didn’t…

Crawly wrapped his arms around his legs, staring blindly at the red-brick wall of the building across the road.

He’d been thinking. If he got his memories back, what would that mean? Would the last few days be an aberration? Would he remember them? Or would they just be like a fuzzy blip on the radar? A blank spot where he’d never know what happened?

It was all rubbish, especially for Aziraphale. He’d had to see enough and now, was he going to have to pick up the pieces of the demon he called Crowley as well? The poor sod needed someone to give him a hug and from the sounds of it memory-having-Crowley was too much of an idiot to do that.

Maybe they’d been different before, when they’d first met.

Maybe Aziraphale hadn’t been kind and protective and soft enough to make anyone care about him.

Crawly huffed out a noisy breath, then got to his feet, retreating into the shop. There was paper there – of course – and thousands of fancy pens for writing. It took him a few tries to make one of them work properly without blobs of ink all over the place, but he finally managed to scrawl down a few words.

He stared at them, then hastily folded up the bit of paper and shoved it into one of those folded envelopes Aziraphale had and scribbled his perhaps-name on the front of it. In case, he thought, someone needed to tell him he was an idiot and that he needed to give the angel a hug.

Only then did he return to the roof, leaning against the balustrade and watching the grey clouds scudding across the sunset-tinted sky. It was cold and getting dark by the time the angel came back. Crawly didn’t dare look around when he heard the footsteps on the stairs.

“It’s very cold, my dear,” the angel said. So gentle, him. Kind and soft. “You should come back inside.”

Crawly gazed up at the distant, barely visible spots of starlight. “M’fine.”

Aziraphale approached to stand beside him, his warmth tangible in the crisp evening air. He laid his hands on the edge of the balustrade. “Worried?”

“Mm.” Crawly cautiously uncurled his fingers to let the very tips graze Aziraphale’s. They were warm and he ducked his head when they curled over his and squeezed. “You get everything?”

Shoes scraped on the roof below them as Aziraphale stepped a little closed. “I did.” A ripple in the air and a prickle of power made the hair on Crawly’s neck stand on end a second before a broad pale wing curled around him, a mantle against the night’s chill.

He looked at the angel, staring at his profile as Aziraphale looked out over the city. “Angel…”

“I know you’re scared,” Aziraphale said quietly. “You don’t need to be. I won’t let them hurt you any more than they already have.”

Crawly gaped. “I’m not worried about me, you idiot! You’re– it’s– this plan is bloody ridiculous!”

Those storm eyes glanced at him and Crawly gaped even more as a tiny dimple appeared in the angel’s cheek. “Ah, _there_ you are,” he said, tucking his wing more snugly around Crawly. It was so comfortable and safe and _nice_ that Crawly wanted to kick him for distracting him from the worry. “It’s all right, my dear. You spent all these years taking care of me. It’s about time I returned the favour with interest.” 

Crawly subsided, grumbling, against him, and curled his fingers around Aziraphale’s. “You’re still an idiot.”

“And it takes one to know one,” Aziraphale replied, as sweet and innocent as an angel.

“Oi!”

The angel’s chuckle warmed him all the way down to his toes.

For a while, they just stood there, but it couldn’t last, not with the plan sitting at the back of Crawly’s mind, gnawing away at him.

“When are you going to do it?” he asked quietly.

A muscle tensed in Aziraphale’s cheek. “Tomorrow,” he said. “First thing. The sooner the better, before they get any more ideas about interfering with us.”

Crawly nodded, running his thumb along the side of Aziraphale’s finger. He didn’t know much of what their relationship was like when he had all his memories in his head, but he had picked up a few bits and pieces. “D’you have any more of that spicy drink?”

“The scotch?”

“Mm.”

Aziraphale smiled. “You know, my dear,” he said. “This time, I think I should be the one to introduce you to the joys of grapes.”

Crawly eyed him suspiciously as the angel folded in his wing. “Is that as dirty as it sounds?”

“If it’s done right, it can be,” Aziraphale chuckled, taking Crawly’s hand properly, broad-palmed and warm-fingered. “Come along, Crawly. We always need a little liquid courage before we embark on any of our damn-fool escapades.”

“This is sounding worse and worse,” Crawly said, struggling not to grin as the angel led him back into the shop. This was a different side of the angel, this cheeky, mischievous bit-of-a-bastard side and even if it was the last time he’d get to see him before his memories came back – look on the bright side, eh? – well, why not enjoy it?

Grapes turned out to be part of something called Chateau-neuf-du-pape, which was apparently a different variety of the spicy drink, made from squished fruit instead of squished grain. It wasn’t as strong as the spicy drink, but he could immediately see why Aziraphale had bottles and bottles of the stuff racked up in the back of the shop.

“And you– we do this every time we’re about to do anything daft?”

Aziraphale returned with another glass and sat back down on the couch beside him. “To be quite honest, we hardly need an excuse.” He tapped his glass against Crawly’s and gave him that dazzling angel smile of his. “Cheers.”

Crawly stared at him, probably a bit too long and hard, then did the same and hastily gulped down the glass in two mouthfuls.

“Honestly!” Aziraphale laughed. “You need to learn to savour things.”

“Uh huh.” Crawly eyed him, then – unable to help himself – struck, darting in and pressing a quick kiss to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth. He’d seen it in books and in the streets and around the people and… and he just wanted to do it once.

Aziraphale’s glass slipped from his fingers, bouncing and spattering all over the floor. The angel’s eyes were as round as saucers.

“Er.” Crawly sat back. “Er… shouldn’t have. Sorry.”

Aziraphale’s lips parted and Crawly couldn’t help darting a look at them. He didn’t _look_ angry. Didn’t sound it either. He was just kind of sitting and blinking and Crawly fidgeted, tempted to shift forms and curl up into a knot instead of–

That broad warm hand curled over his knee.

Crawly swallowed hard, flicking a glance at it. Mistake, that, taking his eyes off the prey, because next thing he knew, equally warm lips were against his and Aziraphale kissed him.

A small, frantic sound hitched in his throat, but his body was doing whatever it wanted and what it wanted was to sink its fingers into Aziraphale hair and open its mouth and pull him closer and kiss him over and over until he ran out of breath.

But this – it wasn’t – it couldn’t –

He wrenched back, whining. “No. No, shouldn’t.”

Aziraphale’s expression said it all. He understood, knew why, agreed. “No,” he said. “Shouldn’t.” He pressed their brows together. “Oh, my dear…”

“If I don’t remember,” Crawly said, lips trembling. “When I– when it’s done, if I don’t remember this, _remind_ me. Please remind me.”

Those stormy eyes searched his face. “You don’t know that you’ll want me,” he said softly.

Crawly curled his fingers into the angel’s hair, stroking through the feather-soft ringlets. “I do,” he whispered. “How couldn’t I?”

Aziraphale stared at him, then placed a last, soft kiss on his lips. “I will.” He smiled, unsteadily. “And if you remember…”

Crawly pulled him closer, hugging him tightly. “You’ll know,” he promised. “Believe me, you’ll know.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re sure about this?”  
> Aziraphale nodded. “Absolutely. They need to know, once and for all, what happens when they mess us about.”  
> Crawly shifted unhappily on his seat. “I don’t like you going in there alone.”  
> The angel glanced across at him from the desk, then smiled. “Darling, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve done it before. I can do it again. Only this time, I won’t be quite as polite as I was last time.”  
> In the thin morning light, Crawly looked pale and drawn. “That’s… that doesn’t help.”

“You’re sure about this?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Absolutely. They need to know, once and for all, what happens when they mess us about.”

Crawly shifted unhappily on his seat. “I don’t like you going in there alone.”

The angel glanced across at him from the desk, then smiled. “Darling, there’s nothing to worry about. I’ve done it before. I can do it again. Only this time, I won’t be quite as polite as I was last time.”

In the thin morning light, Crawly looked pale and drawn. “That’s… that doesn’t help.”

“Oh, my dear…” Aziraphale crossed the floor to him, going to one knee before him. “I’m not afraid. You needn’t be either.”

“And if you don’t come back?” The panic was visible in the demon’s golden eyes. Oh Lord, it would be strange to see him retreat behind his glasses again, all man of mystery. Or so he liked to think at least. “And I’m left like… like this? Not knowing anything?”

Aziraphale gently caught Crawly’s face between his hands. “I’m going there and I’m getting your memories back,” he said firmly. “If I have bless the lot of them to oblivion, I will do whatever I have to do.”

The demon grasped his wrist. “But you don’t like violence! You gave away your sword!”

Ah. Yes. He would, of course, remember that little nugget. “It has a time and a place,” he murmured, stroking his thumbs along Crawly’s pale cheeks, then he leaned forward and placed a kiss on the demon’s forehead. “I’ll be fine and you know what to do.”

Crawly dipped his head as much as Aziraphale’s touch would allow. “I’m not gonna change your mind, am I?”

“No, my dear.” Aziraphale smiled. “But hopefully, I _am_ going to change yours.”

Those wide golden eyes searched his face, then Crawly threw himself forward, wrapping his arms around Aziraphale. “Do it, then,” he rasped, his fingers digging into Aziraphale’s back. “Before I– I’ll stop you, otherwise.”

Aziraphale pulled him closer, holding him fast, and drew on the power they had only ever used twice before. The prickle of it through him, the change washing through every part, every cell, slipping Crawly’s appearance on like a perfect mask.

Abruptly, Crawly sneezed. “Fleh! Hair in my nose!” Aziraphale sat back and eyes that had been golden only seconds earlier went round. His own face gaped back at him and Crawly pointed, opening and shutting his mouth. “You did it!”

“Strange, isn’t it?” Aziraphale got up, trying to arrange the unruly mane of red curls. “I’ll be as quick as I can, I promise.”

Crawly stared up at him. “This is _weird_.”

Aziraphale nodded, adjusting the latest of the cableknit jumpers Crawly had taken to wearing. “You don’t have to tell me twice.” He glanced over his shoulder at the door. “Once I’m gone, lock everything behind me and wait here, all right?”

“I know the plan,” Crawly mumbled. His hands were twisting in knots again.

Aziraphale bent, covering the demon’s hands with his. “I’ll be fine,” he promised.

His own face twisted unhappily, but the demon nodded and looked down. “Go on. Quick. Or I’ll follow you.”

Aziraphale nodded, turning and grabbing the bag on the desk. Don’t look back, he told himself, as he strode out into the street and to the waiting taxi. Don’t look back. It wouldn’t help to see his own worried face staring after him. Crowley hadn’t given himself away, but Crawly did. Every emotion written all over his face.

He only saw a glimpse of pale hair in the window as the car pulled away and sped off in the direction of Canary Wharf.

It was quite a different thing to walk into the hallway of that building by choice and step onto the downward escalator. He ought to have been afraid, but instead a bright kindling flame of righteous anger was lapping inside his ribs. Fear had no place there.

The hallways of Hell were just as grim and bleak as he remembered and he ran into the middle of them. “Beelzebub! Lord Beelzebub!”

Among the thronging crowds and milling demons, it was hard to spot the Prince of Hell until they all but materialised right in front of him, looking thoroughly put out.

“Demon Crawly. What brings you back so soon?”

He widened his eyes like Crawly. “Something… weird is going on, my Lord!” He fumbled into the bag and withdrew a bottle. “Look! Last night, I tried to go back to bother the angel and he… well he tried to throw this in my face!”

Beelzebub had a very good poker face, but even they didn’t quite manage to hide the flicker of panic in their eyes or the way they swayed back a step.

“And I thought,” Aziraphale prattled on like a happy-go-lucky demon, “Hang on a minute! Aren’t we meant to be allergic to the stuff? I mean, fatally allergic? But look!” He unscrewed the cap and sloshed holy water all over his hand.

Beelzebub’s frantic backpedal was unmistakable now, as was the hiss of the water on the ground beneath Aziraphale’s feet. Fetid black oil was eaten away, gleaming around in him a spreading puddle, bright and pure and clean. And the hall erupted into screaming chaos around them, demons falling over themselves in their attempt to flee.

“Isn’t that something?” Aziraphale beamed and bounded towards them, bottle outstretched. “D’you want to see if it’s the same for–”

“No!” Beelzebub snarled. “Cap that bottle now, Crawly!”

“Oh.” Aziraphale pulled up as if wounded. “Right. Okay.” He put the lid back on the bottle. “Just thought you’d want to know.”

Beelzebub was breathing hard through clenched teeth, their beetle-eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s face. “Come with me,” they snapped and turned on their heel, striding far and fast from the sizzling puddle of holy water.

Aziraphale bit down on the inside of his cheek to hide his smile and hurried after them. “I didn’t mean to–”

“Shut it.”

“But I’m just saying–”

Beelzebub whipped around, teeth flashing. “And I’m saying shut it, do you understand me?”

It probably looked like anger to everyone else around them, but Aziraphale was close enough to see the bald terror in their eyes. He’d seen it before in a courtroom in the darker depths. Oh, this was a game he knew how to play.

“Yes, Lord Beelzebub,” he said bobbing in a half-bow. “Course. Shutting it.”

Despite the packed hallways, there was a clear path parting ahead of them, rather like Moses at the Red sea. Beelzebub led him onwards and flung open the door of a room. “In there and stay put,” they snapped. “Now.”

Aziraphale hurried in and immediately spotted the mirror stretched along one wall. This, he realised, must’ve been the room where they brought Crawly. Like the human interrogation chambers in the television programmes. A mirrored wall to hide the watchers on the other side.

He wandered over to the mirror, peering at it, as if studying his own face. His hair was a mess so he carefully adjusted the curls and set down his bottle of holy water to attempt a braid. He wasn’t very good at it, but that was no surprise. It still served to kill the time. Minutes turned to half an hour, ticking slowly onwards, then – beyond the mirror – he heard the muffled creak of a door opening and low, angry voices talking.

Several minutes later, another door creaked, then the one behind him swung open and Beelzebub marched back in.

“Demon Crawly,” they said sharply. “Tell me again what happened.”

Tell our viewing audience, you mean.

“Like I said, I went back to mess around with the angel, like you said,” Aziraphale said, all innocence. “He said he could smell Hell on me and had…” He spun around, then lunged down, snatching back up the bottle. “He had one of these and threw it all over me.”

“Demonstrate,” they ground out through clenched teeth.

Obligingly, Aziraphale unscrewed the cap. “Look,” he said, then took a mouthful of the stuff.

Beelzebub went ash-grey. “And it’s real?” they demanded. “You’re sure?”

“Mm.” Aziraphale nodded. “The angel was surprised as anything and started crying. Said I must be pure and good after all.” He beamed again. “I think the daft bugger trusts me now.”

Beelzbub’s face twitched. “This may be… useful.”

“Yeah?” Aziraphale looked at the bottle of water. “Maybe we should test everyone?” He started for the door. “I don’t have much but–”

“No!” Beelzebub snarled, grabbing his arm, then recoiling as if he’d burned them. “What the Hell is wrong with you?”

Aziraphale met their eyes and smiled, bright and warm and happy. “You tell me.”

They stared at him and there was a reason they were Prince of Hell. He could see the cogs whirling behind their eyes.

Still, a point had to be made.

“I mean,” Aziraphale said, spinning dramatically and meandering in circles across the room. “I couldn’t tell you how I ended up immune to holy water. S’not something _any_ demon can do, is it? No demon at all, as far as I know.”

“Crawly–”

“And who knows,” Aziraphale said, staring straight at them, “what other weird little skills I’ve gone and picked up without knowing.”

He took a deep breath and ah, yes, there was the stink of the familiar cologne.

And well, if that wasn’t a good excuse to sneeze…

White wings erupted around him with enough force to shatter the mirror.

Beelzebub swore aloud and their eyes darted to the gaping hole in the glass.

“Oh, bugger…” Aziraphale turned as if to inspect the damage. “I didn’t know I could…oh!” He met the stunned purple eyes of the angel sprawled in the shattered glass. “The Archangel Gabriel!” He tilted his head in that lovely snakey way Crowley sometimes did. “What’s he doing here, then?”

Gabriel bared his teeth as he got up, angrily dusting glass off his torn coat. “You said he didn’t know!” he snarled at Beelzebub.

“He _doesn’t_!”

Aziraphale considered the bottle in his hand, then the Archangel and, well, he had behaved for an awfully long time and sometimes, you really did just have to hurl a solid glass bottle at your murderous ex-boss. It hit Gabriel in the middle of the forehead, sending him reeling and crashing into the wall on the far side of the room.

“Crawly!” Beelzebub sounded both terrified and furious.

“He’s an Archangel!” Aziraphale retorted. “Our enemy!” He flashed a look at them. “Isn’t he?”

Beelzebub recoiled. “I– he–”

Aziraphale hopped around the shards of glass to lean through the broken mirror. “Hello, Gabriel,” he said, smiling Crawly’s widest, toothiest smile. “Didn’t realise you’d Fallen.” He blinked slowly. “Oh. Wait. You haven’t.” He tutted. “An Archangel, running around in Hell? What will mum think?”

“You keep her name out of your filthy mouth,” Gabriel growled, rolling to his feet, beautifully dishevelled. “You’re an abomination.” He bared his perfect teeth, staggering towards the shattered mirror. “You’re–”

Aziraphale smiled, all teeth and malice. “Ineffable?” he suggested and punched the damned bastard right in the face.

Gabriel went down like a sack of wet cement and Aziraphale spun back to Beelzebub, who was looking increasingly as if they wanted to crawl through the walls, panic and alarm all over their face.

“So,” Aziraphale clasped his hands together, mild as milk. “Here’s what’s going to happen. _You_ are going to make sure I get my memories back so I know what the Hell’s going on and _I_ won’t go out and tell everyone that you and Lucifer are lapdogs for Heaven.” He raised his eyebrows. “Sound fair to you?”

Beelzebub’s face twitched furiously. “You have no right–”

“No, probably not,” Aziraphale interrupted cheerfully, “but I think some of our… colleagues won’t be pleased if I drag his high and mightiness out and tell him you’ll sell out any demon when Heaven says so, because you’re that weak.” He grinned. “Who d’you think they’re going to believe? I mean everyone down here knows what you did to me, don’t they? And you know our lot. They like someone sticking it to Heaven and this…” He hissed through his teeth. “Well, I don’t think this’ll impress anyone, will it?”

“You…”

He widened his eyes innocently. “What?”

Beelzebub bared their teeth. “ _Fine_.”

“Now, if you don’t mind,” Aziraphale said with a sunny smile. “Just… call it a guarantee. A gesture of good faith. You give me my memories back and we all part ways and never darken one another’s doorways again.”

They stared at him and he felt the pulse of power only seconds before the mobile telephone buzzed in his pocket.

“Ah,” he sighed with relief. “That’s better.” He strolled towards them and wrinkled his nose with a cheerful little smile. “This time, maybe you listen to me when I tell you to leave me and mine the fuck alone? Hm?”

“Get out,” they snarled, though he was delighted to notice they were backing away again.

He tapped two fingers to his forehead. “My pleasure.”

Unsurprisingly, a path opened up before him again and he trotted through the swarms of wary, staring demons as if he was skipping through a field of daisies – though it was considerably more aromatic. He glanced back and gave a little wave to Beelzebub standing at the far end of the dark, flicker-lit hall, then stepped onto the escalator.

His heart thundered as it started to move.

The telephone had buzzed. That meant Crowley’s memories were back. That was good. That was exactly what he’d came for. But that didn’t mean everything was back to normal. What state would Crowley be in? Lord, six millennia of the horrors of mankind crashing in on you could be terrifying. And would he remember anything of the past week? Or nothing?

He groped in his pocket, pulling out the telephone. It only had one number, carefully keyed in the previous night, and he dialled. It rang. It rang and rang and rang.

“Come on…” he whispered, chewing his lower lip to messes. “Where are you?”

It rang off and he dialled again as he trundled closer and closer to the surface.

No answer, which was… that wasn’t a good sign. _Oh, Crowley, God help me if this has broken you_. He shoved the telephone back into his pocket and ran the rest of the way up the escalator, hardly pausing for breath as he did so.

The sudden burst of daylight as he emerged from the underworld was blinding and he stumbled towards the door, blinking, a hand held up to shield his eyes.

“Oi!” A familiar voice bellowed a second before engines screamed.

Aziraphale turned, heart in his throat, to see his own form leap from the back of a motorcycle. He was moving before his brain could process and they crashed into one another and the world was suddenly still and quiet, all blue skies and soft pale sands he had only seen once before, and arms around him.

“You’re back,” he breathed.

“Almost.” His own voice spoke in his ear. “Ready?”

The power surged, coursing through them and Aziraphale shuddered with relief. He drew back, searching the demon’s face. His eyes were uncovered and gleaming and bright and oh, that half-grin, that crook of his mouth.

“Oh, _Crowley_ …” he breathed.

Crowley’s eyes were as misty as his. “S’me, angel,” he said, voice rough as gravel. “S’me.”

“You remember.” Aziraphale half-laughed, half-sobbed. “Oh thank God.”

“Thank _you_ ,” Crowley retorted, smudging the tears from Aziraphale’s cheek with his thumb. “And, before I forget–”

“Don’t even joke ab–”

Crowley shut him up with a kiss. When he pulled back, a few seconds later, he warily searched Aziraphale’s face.

Aziraphale stared back at him, his heart flip-flopping in his chest. “You _remember_?”

“I remember,” Crowley said with Crawly’s smile and kissed him again. “And I don’t plan on stopping.”

Aziraphale pulled him closer, clinging to him. “Never, ever stop.”

Crowley cupped his cheek, nudging the tip of their noses together. “S’a guarantee.” He half-laughed and sniffed hard. “Now… about my car…”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley ran his hand along the steering wheel of the Bentley.  
> They'd finished working on her together, repairing what they could. She wasn’t quite back to her normal state and probably never would be – and wasn’t that a profound metaphor for the body he was now sitting in – but it wasn’t all bad. Sometimes, she played a little bit of Sondheim for a change. Aziraphale’s touch there.  
> He smiled crookedly. With all the miracles the angel had poured into the poor machine, it was amazing that she hadn’t ended up with tartan seats. He’d done a good job, though. He knew the car well enough to smooth the worst of the damage, piecing glass and metal back into the right places.  
> The last details? Those were all in Crowley’s hands.

Crowley ran his hand along the steering wheel of the Bentley.

They'd finished working on her together, repairing what they could. She wasn’t quite back to her normal state and probably never would be – and wasn’t that a profound metaphor for the body he was now sitting in – but it wasn’t all bad. Sometimes, she played a little bit of Sondheim for a change. Aziraphale’s touch there.

He smiled crookedly. With all the miracles the angel had poured into the poor machine, it was amazing that she hadn’t ended up with tartan seats. He’d done a good job, though. He knew the car well enough to smooth the worst of the damage, piecing glass and metal back into the right places.

The last details? Those were all in Crowley’s hands.

Yep. Great big metaphors all over the place.

“Enough,” he told himself and swung out of the car.

The book shop was closed, but the door opened under his hand and he strode in. “Angel!”

“Through here, my dear,” Aziraphale called from the back of the shop.

Crowley started across the shop floor, then hesitated. His glasses were resting heavily on his face and he made a face and pulled them off before heading through.

Aziraphale was in his small kitchen nook and called over his shoulder. “How’s the car?”

“Getting there,” Crowley replied, leaning against the shelves and watching the angel puttering about. “A few more kinks to smooth out, but she’ll be back to her old self in no time.”

“Oh, I am glad,” Aziraphale said, turning, and Crowley would’ve had to have been blind to miss the way his face lit up.

And, of all the daft things to do, Crowley’s face went red. “Don’t make a thing of it,” he grumbled, hooking the leg of his glasses over the collar of his t-shirt. And, because apparently he could now – another new and exciting development – he crossed the floor in three long-legged steps to crowd Aziraphale against the counter and claimed a kiss, which rapidly turned into several kisses.

The angel was glowing happily when he pulled back. “You know I’ve always loved your eyes, my dear,” he said. There was mischief in his expression. “And your hair looks rather nice.”

Crowley rolled his eyes dramatically, but had to admit he was pleased. He’d pulled off a pretty impressive French braid. “Seeing if I still had the knack,” he said, pulling it over his shoulder. “S’been a while since I’ve had it this long.”

“Keeping it, then?” Aziraphale hazarded, reaching up to smooth the curly tip of the braid.

“Maybe,” Crowley agreed. If he was honest, he’d kind of missed it. “For a bit.”

“Oh good!”

“But!” He held up a warning finger. “Only the hair. Satan’s sake, angel! What on earth did you dress me in?” He waved down at his clothes, which were all sleek and fitted and – above all else – black. “You know this is my style not… whatever the hell that was.”

Aziraphale’s lips twitched. “Don’t blame me,” he said. “It was your suggestion.”

“Yeah, but your breeches from that ball in Halifax and cream cableknit? And bloody _Uggs_? I looked like I’d got dressed backwards in the dark.”

The angel feigned a pout. “I thought you looked rather… adorable.”

“Ugh!”

“You did!” Aziraphale prodded the middle of his chest. “And I think you liked it.”

Crowley chewed furiously on the inside of his cheek. “S’not the point!”

To his wonder and delight, Aziraphale leaned closer and kissed him lightly. “The jumpers come in black, if you really want one. Just for wearing in here, of course. If you’re ever cold.” His eyes crinkled up in that warm and familiar smile. “I would hate to ruin your… oh…. What do they call it? Street credentials?”

Crowley couldn’t help laughing. “God, I love you.”

Silence dropped like a rock.

“You… you do?”

Crowley stared at him. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. After all, he’d clearly spent far too many years keeping his mouth shut. “Obviously.”

“Oh _good_!” Aziraphale was in his arms, shining like the sun. “When you – he-you, not current you-you – I – well, I wasn’t sure what to think. It’s– You’d never, so I didn’t think you wanted–”

“Oh I wanted,” Crowley interrupted, sinking his fingers in Aziraphale’s hair. “You have _no_ idea how long I’ve been sitting on my hands, trying not to scare you or worry you or muck everything up.”

Those heavenly eyes were round. “How long?”

“Nnngh.” Crowley could feel the blush accelerating up from beneath his collar, heading towards his hairline with alarming speed. “Angel… I mean… he… I… d’you honestly think I was _that_ different? If you hadn’t been how you were back then…”

Aziraphale blinked slowly. “All that time?”

Crowley winced, waving his free hand from side to side. “The feelings came later, but the wanting?” He gave Aziraphale a helpless, crooked smile. “Well… I’m soft for a rascal, we both know that.”

“And then you had a silly great angel pulling you out of a car-wreck and calling you dear and your poor old self made a leap of logic.” The happiness was pretty much radiating out of the angel. “I absolutely hated this week, not knowing if I’d be able to get you back, but I _am_ glad I know now.”

Crowley curled his fingers slowly in Aziraphale’s hair, revelling in the feather softness of it. “Me too,” he admitted. He leaned closer and confided close to Aziraphale’s ear, “And I really liked the fact you went and scared the living hell out of everyone on my behalf, you absolute bastard.”

Aziraphale beamed at him when he drew back. “Oh, that part was a lot of fun.” He suddenly reared back. “Oh! I had forgotten!” He squeezed around Crowley and bustled over to the desk. “I was tidying up and I found this!” He held up an envelope. “It’s addressed to you.”

Crowley groaned. “Oh. Yeah. That.”

“What is it?” Aziraphale peered at it. “It’s your hand-writing, so I’m assuming it’s something you wanted yourself to know.”

“Um. A bit. Yeah. You can bin it.”

Aziraphale eyed him, then ripped the envelope open. “I’m sorry, my dear,” he said, backing away as Crowley yelped, pouncing for the letter. For such a stout angel, he had a bloody good turn of speed, ducking around the chair as he pulled the letter out of the envelope. “I have to know!”

“You don’t!”

“I want to, then!” Aziraphale laughed, shaking the paper free.

“Angel!” Crowley wailed.

Aziraphale gave him a prim sniff and looked at the page. Crowley groaned, covering his eyes with his hand. He heard the in-drawn breath and the small, startled “Oh”.

“Mm,” he concurred.

“Crawly… he… you knew?”

Crowley cracked open two fingers and glowered between them. “No, angel.”

“Then what?” Aziraphale was pink-cheeked and wide-eyed. “He– surely you’re not saying…”

“That I managed to fall in love with you twice?” Crowley nodded, wincing. “Yeah. Looks that way.” He jabbed a finger at the angel. “Don’t get yourself all puffed up about it! Memory loss! Amnesia! I was a helpless victim! Didn’t know what I was doing.”

The expression on Aziraphale’s face was anything but puffed up. His eyes were shining worryingly and he clutched the letter closer to his chest. “Oh, my _dear_ …”

Crowley’s throat tightened. “Don’t start that,” he cautioned. “F’you start that, I’ll start and we’re both too much of a mess to be of any use to anyone right now.”

Aziraphale laughed, damp and brittle. “Oh, my dear, I’m afraid it’s far too late for warnings.” He dropped the letter and crossed the floor, pulling Crowley tightly into his embrace. He was shaking, Crowley thought helplessly, clinging to him. Both of them were. No wonder really.

“S’all right, angel,” he whispered, because his voice definitely wasn’t all rattly and wet. Not even a little bit. Nope. No sniffling or anything.

“I love you too, darling,” Aziraphale breathed. “Maybe not twice but certainly as much.”

Crowley dug his fingers deeper into the angel’s back. “Soft,” he managed to get out. Impressive, that. A whole syllable.

“Mm. Famously,” Aziraphale agreed, his hands running in broad circles on Crowley’s back. He kissed Crowley’s wet cheek, then his lips again and then lifted a hand to cradle his cheek tenderly. “Will you be all right, my darling?”

It was a loaded question and they both knew it.

It was… a lot. Everything was technically the same, but it had also changed in ways that couldn’t be undone. Good and bad. A new layer of fear had eased itself in there, his security in himself shaken all over again, but also a new layer of trust and the knowledge that Aziraphale would find him and protect him if anything ever came after him again.

He was safe. He _felt_ safe.

“Better soon,” he said and he meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we made it :) I hope you enjoyed the ride :D Feel free to pop by [my tumblr](amuseoffyre.tumblr.com/) to keep up with the next shenanigans I work on.


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